


If You Must Live, Darling One

by lrose20



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: AU, M/M, Other, Severus Snape Lives, Slow Burn, major death is snape's, snarry
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-24
Updated: 2017-05-25
Packaged: 2018-04-23 03:43:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4861706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lrose20/pseuds/lrose20
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two years after the Final Battle, Harry Potter is still plagued with nightmares about Severus Snape's death. Life only becomes more difficult when Teddy falls ill with a sickness no healer can seem to cure. Harry seeks out the aid of a healer living in the remotest regions of Scotland. He reminds Harry a great deal of his former professor, but that's impossible. </p><p>Harry should know by now that nothing is impossible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ice Cream

**Author's Note:**

> Haven't written Snarry in ages, hope this is okay. Beta read by the lovely calleo b!

The nightmare plagued Harry’s sleep again, the way it had for months.   
It was never quite the same, but it always followed a familiar theme. 

He was always somewhere familiar: His flat, the Quidditch pitch, Flourish & Blotts, places he frequented.   
Tonight, the nightmare placed Harry in Diagon Alley, eating an ice cream—probably at Fortescue’s. 

He had been enjoying the mixture of strawberry and peanut butter, slurping up a chunk of strawberry, still blissfully ignorant to what awaited him; just a lovely dream about ice cream.   
But it was there, unnoticed, lurking in the shadows. That creature, waiting to pounce. Harry turned toward what felt warm and radiant, a bit like mid-day sun, only to find himself enveloped in darkness instead.

The cone fell from his hand, ice cream splattering onto the now shadowed pavement, some splashing up to stain his jeans.   
The man is there again, standing in front of Harry as he always was when the nightmare began.   
He was silent, too silent. 

Harry wished he could scream, wished he could hurl insults, shout, speak, move, just be able to do something, anything.   
Anything, he thought, would be preferable to the silence. 

The bite wound on the man was still fresh, it’s always fresh. It never seemed to matter, in the dream, how many days or weeks had passed since that night, it was always fresh.   
Blood poured from it the wound, as it usually did, running thickly to the ground, mingling with the dropped ice cream. The pool of both liquids mixed at their feet, growing larger by the second ; by now, Harry thought he would have been used to it, yet it kept him trapped in a fascinated horror every time, despite knowing it wasn’t truly real.  
The man’s skin was pale, deathly so, unnatural, and only getting worse as the wound bled out; the eyes dark, unwavering, accusing. 

“…Harry…” No words were spoken, no sound came from the man’s slack, darkened mouth, yet they echoed in the choking darkness. The silence had been preferable.

Harry began to tremble, his entire body shaking with each reverberation of his name. He wanted to wake up, he wanted to escape, he knew this wasn’t real, yet he couldn’t tear himself away. A strangled sob escaped his lips; the black gaze never faltered, and held him in rapt, horrible fascination.

“Please—please, what do you want? I can’t save you, I can’t bring you back! Please—let me be—leave me alone—oh God.” Harry’s knees buckled then, and he sank to the ground, his jeans becoming soaked in melted cream, fruit, and blood. He covered his ears first with his hands then with his forearms, trying to escape the repeating of his name, curling like a dying spider; the voice--Snape's voice--seemed to reverberate inside his head, not from any external source.

All the while the spectre of Severus Snape continued to look down on him, unblinking, unmoving, mouth limply opened: The living corpse of Severus Snape.

 

Harry jerked awake, bolting upright and clutching his blankets to him. He panted hard, unable to catch his breath for the moment, chest heaving up and down, more gasping for air than breathing.   
He’d been there again, in the nightmare.   
Snape. 

It always felt so real, so—suffocating. 

Harry shuddered and curled in on himself with a quiet, shaky groan, burying his face against the blankets that rested on his lap.   
He remained in that position for some time, trying to calm himself or at least regain control of his breathing.   
Finally, Harry’s breathing had slowed to something resembling a normal pace, and the last pieces of the nightmare began to fall away to the back of his mind, he lifted his head.   
A cold, creeping feeling remained and it was then that Harry realised that he was soaking wet, as were his sheets, some of the blankets, and his pillow. Harry scowled, and angrily threw the blankets off as he pushed himself out of bed to remove the clammy feeling fitted sheet. He jerked the bottom sheets off ungracefully and roughly and threw them on the floor; at least if he felt angry—even if it was just at the bedsheets—he didn’t feel quite so frightened.

Harry did, however, feel disgusted with himself, even the anger couldn’t entirely blot that out. His mind had not been a stable place since he was about fourteen of course, but there had been good reason for that: His connection to the late Voldemort.   
Now Voldemort was gone, but true to the type of person he had been in life, even in death, he left considerable damage in his wake.   
Harry didn’t understand the how or why of it, he just knew that being wrenched free of the connection he and Voldemort had unwittingly (and unwillingly) shared did not bring the relief or closure he had assumed would come. He often wondered if the damage done had been so great that he might never feel as though his mind were whole—or even fully his.

Harry sighed, and his shoulders slumped as he shuffled over to the bedroom window to have a look outside. He could see the sun slowly rising over London proper, pale pink and orange.   
He guessed it had to be about half six; not the worst time it could have been, but certainly earlier than Harry had planned on waking up on a Saturday. 

There was no point in going back to bed now.   
He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep, and even if he could, Teddy would be waking up in a couple of hours.

Harry left the sheets on the floor, wanting nothing to do with them for the moment. He'd wash them later, when he’d had ample time to calm himself and not have to worry about being upset again by the reminder of how his day began.   
Stepping away from the window, Harry crossed the room and opened up a drawer in his wardrobe, and pulled out a grey Irish knit sweater.   
He wrestled it over his head, pulling it down snug to block out the October chill. He then grabbed a pair of socks and yanked them on his feet, padding over to the door and opening, allowing more light to stream in. 

He and Teddy lived in a cozy two room flat on the edge of London for some months now. Harry could have easily afforded a nicer place, and he planned eventually to get one but, just for now, he wanted this.   
This little piece of normalcy, of adulthood. His large amount of wealth could sit in Gringotts for now, to be used when necessary or needed.  
The other bedroom was just opposite Harry’s, and the door was open a crack. Harry had recently forced himself to move Teddy into his own room, knowing it was better for the toddler, especially considering the increasing frequency of Harry’s own nightmares.   
Harry still couldn’t help feeling a bit guilty about it though, so he always kept the door cracked just open.   
He carefully and quietly pushed the door open just wide enough to peek in and check on his godson. 

Teddy was still fast asleep on his cot; his hair was blue on top, with red and yellow on the bottom. The child could already control his looks to a certain extent when he was awake, but when he was asleep, his appearance would change wildly, and without any rhyme or reason to it. Harry smiled softly as Teddy’s hair faded to a different set of colours again, pulling the door closed once more.

It was true, he could no longer find peace in his dreams, but he could still find it in small ways the waking world, and that was enough--for the moment--to make him feel better.


	2. Tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta read and edited by calleo b again. Thank you so much. If you're interested in beta reading as well, let me know! Also comments equal love. Kudos are great but comments feed the soul

“Have you gone to talk to anyone, Harry?” Hermione asked from the sofa, attempting to mask the alarm she felt once he had finished telling her about the recurring dream.  
She held her cup of tea with both hands, uninterested, for the moment, in drinking.  
Hermione was peering at him, brow furrowed, with that look of concern that was oddly familiar and comforting, and that also meant she was going to tell Harry things he already knew and was likely avoiding.

“He’s talking to us, Hermione,” Ron reminded her, his words muffled by the digestive that he had just crammed into his mouth. Hermione rolled her eyes, shaking her head in that same familiar fashion the three of them had known for years. She wasn't angry, really, just exasperated; it seemed her duty of explaining what should have been obvious to Harry and Ron would be a lifelong one. 

“I mean a proper therapist, Ronald. Someone who’s trained in-”

“--dealing with mental people?” Harry finished, saving Hermione the awkwardness of having to come up with a polite way to describe how he felt lately. 

Hermione flushed pink, setting her cup down with an emphatic thump.  
“You’re not mental, Harry! You've just seen a lot of death and suffering of those close to you; you've sacrificed so much for someone so young. It’s perfectly reasonable to need a little help.” Though she hadn't meant it, an almost stern, mother-like tone had crept into her voice, as though what she were saying happened to be the most obvious thing in the world.

Harry sighed, drawing his legs up to rest his feet on the cushion of the large, overstuffed armchair on which he was sitting. The chair was a deep red, and looked suspiciously like the ones in the Gryffindor common room.  
He wrapped his arms around his knees, just looking between Hermione and Ron, trying to come up with something to say in response to her statement; knowing she was right and admitting it to himself were, after all, two very different things. 

Both Ron and Hermione quickly picked up on Harry's discomfort and made a half-hearted attempt to change the topic to more cheerful matters, and Harry made his best effort to go along with it.  
The truth was, however, that Harry had been feeling out of sorts for weeks and, at best, had simply been going through the motions; say what they want to hear, show them what they want to see, don't be a cause of worry to your friends.  
Ron had noticed something amiss, and had taken upon himself to try and cheer his best friend up. The Gryffindor common had yet to be fully renovated after the battle at Hogwarts, and Ron figured no one would miss one chair, and it might help to give Harry a little piece of comfort.  
Despite not necessarily approving of outright theft , Harry considered it one of the nicest things Ron had done for him, even if he hadn't yet found a way to express that.

 

“What would I say to a therapist Hermione?" Harry dragged the subject back to its original path, "What Mediwitch or Mediwizard could really be impartial to me, with who I am? Everyone in the Wizarding world's got an opinion of me."

He sighed, though it came out as more of a frustrated huff, "People either think I was responsible for the deaths of everyone they loved, or that I’m a saviour, the chosen one," he added with a note of bitterness.  
"And a Muggle doctor wouldn’t have any clue what I went through. They would think I was mental if I started talking about Dark Lords and magical battles and a war Muggles aren't even aware happened--never minding that that would be a complete violation of the International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy!"  
Besides,” he continued, frowning, and knowing he needed to tell them the truth and get it over with, “Snape’s the only thing I dream about.” 

Ron choked violently on the biscuit he'd been uncomfortably nibbling at, sending him into a coughing fit which had Hermione pounding vigorously on his back.  
Harry looked out of the window while he waited for his friend to breathe normally again. Autumn had arrived a couple of weeks ago with full vengeance, driving away the summer heat for the next good six months or so.  
The leaves had all faded from green into vibrant reds and oranges which painted the street down below Harry’s building.  
Harry let his eyes slide away from the pavement and back over to his friends, where Ron finally seemed to be capable of speaking again.

“Why the bloody hell are you having dreams about Snape?!”

“They’re nightmares, Ron,” Hermione reminded sharply.

“Right, well, that's at least a bit more understandable--but why Snape?” Ron demanded, a little more intensely than he'd likely intended, as though Harry had a proper answer to offer.

“How in the Hell should I know, Ron?!” Harry retorted, not liking the tone Ron was using. “If I did, you think I wouldn't have also figured out a way to stop them?”

“He did see him die, remember?” Hermione reminded. 

“He saw loads of people die, Hermione,” Ron answered, his voice low and tight. “But why Snape?" Ron looked at Harry again, "Why not Remus, or Tonks, or Dumbledore or--Fred?” Ron's words had unintentionally become louder with each name, faltering on his late brother's, and making Harry progressively more defensive. 

 

Harry couldn’t help who he had nightmares about, and he opened his mouth to shout something of the sort at Ron, when the sound of Teddy wailing from inside his bedroom made them all stop and look at the wall.  
He glared pointedly at Ron before pushing himself out of the chair and walking into Teddy’s room.

 

The toddler was standing up in his crib, tears dripping down his chubby little face, “Hey Teddy Bear, what’s the matter?” Harry asked, as cheerfully as he could manage. 

Teddy only cried harder, stretching his arms out for “Hawy,” as Harry had been dubbed. Harry had made sure Teddy knew he wasn’t his father, and that he didn’t end up calling him Daddy or some variation. Harry didn't take issue with acting as the boy's father, and being seen as such; it was more that he never wanted Teddy to forget who his parents had been and what they had sacrificed. He never wanted for Remus and Tonks to be forgotten or to just be remembered as "friends of Harry Potter."

Harry picked Teddy up, placing the boy against his hip, thinking it would be much easier to hold his godson if he had any semblance of hips. Women--well, some women, at least--certainly had it easier in that regard, though it didn't seem to cause Teddy much fuss or difficulty in wrapping his legs around Harry's waist.

“Shh, there there Teddy. It’s okay, no one’s angry,” he added. It had become evident, even at this young age, that Teddy held deep empathy. Far beyond what a normal child possessed. The toddler could sense the change in emotion of a room at the drop of a hat. 

Through his tears Teddy gave him a frown that, if given by an adult would have said, “Pull the other one, Potter, it's got bells on.” Harry gently stroked the boy’s hair, which was a dark red and black, an obvious sign of how distressed he was, and ended with a playful ruffle. 

“Don’t believe me, huh? C’mon, I’ll show you, Auntie Hermione and Uncle Ron have come to visit!”

 

He carried Teddy out to the sitting room where Hermione and Ron were engaged in a furious conversation of whispers.

“I know that it hurts, I’ve been with you, haven’t I? But he’s your best friend, you can’t--”

 

Harry cleared his throat and Hermione looked up, clearly flustered. Ron did as well, looking properly chastised. He’d filled out a fair bit, at twenty years of age, he looked more like man, but Hermione still managed to make him look like a Third Year being scolded by McGonagall when she wanted to.

“Teddy seems to think we’re all furious with each other. Are we?” The question was directed to both of them, but it was Ron who he was staring at. Ron’s nostrils flared with a sharp intake of breath, but on seeing Teddy’s tear stained face, his shoulders slumped, and he deflated. 

 

“No. See, Teddy Bear, everything’s fine.” Bolstering himself and forcing a cheerful, lopsided grin, Ron pulled at his ears like a monkey, and Teddy squealed with delight, forming very realistic looking monkey ears of his own. 

 

“We should probably go,” Hermione murmured, standing, and dragging Ron up with her. She wrapped an arm around Harry and hugged him tightly, before kissing Teddy on the cheek. “I really think you should speak to someone Harry.”  
She pulled away and grabbed Ron’s hand. He gave an awkward wave as they prepared to leave.

 

Harry mumbled a begrudging, “Sure, I'll look into it,” as Hermione offered him a small, somewhat sad smile and disapparated, Ron in tow. 

 

Harry sighed, looking at Teddy, who was still sporting his monkey ears and now green hair. “I can talk to you, can’t I, Teddy? Hermione said 'someone', and she doesn't need to know who, right?”

The nod his godson gave him was a little too serious and genuine for Harry’s liking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't meant to bash Ron. To me he still wouldn't have properly forgiven Snape, and he's dealing with the still relatively recent death of his brother. We still love him.


	3. Mushy Peas

It was bad enough that Harry’s nightmares kept interrupting his sleep. There were dark bags under his eyes, and his lip was all torn up and bruised from where he kept biting it hard enough to make it bleed in the middle of the night. It was bad enough that Harry felt he was losing his mind, one night at a time. He could practically feel his sanity slowly trickling away. Harry did not believe he was letting his imagination run away with him; he didn’t think he was blowing this out of proportion. After everything he’d seen and been through, he found it not the least bit surprising for him to at long last be cracking. 

Yes, all of that was awful enough for Harry. But he’d never had a relaxing life, why would he start having one now?

Teddy had fallen ill. It was not an illness easily recognized; at first, Harry no reason to believe Teddy was sick at all. 

It started with Teddy having temper tantrums. The first time it had been over eating his can of mushy peas. Teddy hated the green goop of vegetable concoction, and given how many times he’d thrown them all over the wall, Harry had started to despise them as well. But both Molly and Andromeda had told him how important it was that children ate their vegetables. Clearly no one had informed Aunt Petunia of this; Dudley hadn’t touched a vegetable until he was a teenager.

Harry refused to be such a poor guardian, so he persevered. It was two in the afternoon, and raining outside. The rain pounded on the window pane, matching the rhythm of Teddy’s fists as they smacked the high chair. Harry set the can of peas on the little table, and scooped a small bite out.

“Alright Teddy bear, here comes the broomstick,” he said brightly, waving the spoon in front of the toddler’s face. Teddy glared back at him, unamused.

“Nuh. Naw. No,” was the answer he got, all in one long stream.

“Please Teddy, just take one bite,” Harry asked him pleadingly. 

“NO NO NO NO,” Teddy shouted, his hair turning a violent shade of dark orange. He shook his head back and forth, twisting and turning away from the spoon.

“You eat some peas, you can have some banana.” Bananas were currently Teddy’s favorite food, and Harry’s go to bargaining chip. Of course, bananas were along the same lines as peas, something healthy and beneficial for his godson to eat. But Teddy didn’t know that; to him they might as well have been candy. 

“Come on, Teddy Bear, one little bite.”

“No want to!” Teddy shrieked, and smacked the entire can of mushy peas off his tray, sending it flying into the wall, where it shattered and fell to the ground, leaving slimy green trails in its wake. Harry swore, tossing the spoon down and jumping up to clean up the mess with his wand. 

“Teddy, we don’t throw things! For the love of Merlin,” Harry growled, realizing he too was now covered in mushy peas. He swore again under his breath, and it was at this moment that Teddy began to cry. 

No, more than cry. The little boy began to sob. Harry turned back to see fat, wet tears streaming down his face. His hair slowly slipped from orange to dark grey, as did the color of his eyes. His entire face was crumpled, unhappiness clear on his young, smooth skin. 

Harry picked the toddler up, cradling him, hushing him with gentle noises. But Teddy continued to sob, his hair changing again and again, his entire little body trembling. It terrified Harry to pieces, seeing his godson behave like this. He continued to stroke his hair, murmuring soothing words, until at long last the trembling subsided and only sniffles could be heard.

Harry put the boy back to bed, feeling deeply unsettled, before chalking it up to just a bad temper tantrum on a bad day.

If only that had been the case.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter really gave me trouble so I decided to just split it into and put what I had already to give you some kind of update.


	4. Banana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which while Snape might not appear in this chapter, I SWEAR he'll be in this fic, and a big part of it

"There, he's finally settled down," an exhausted Andromeda Tonks informed Harry, as she closed the door to the guest room. A worn, callused hand rubbed across her face, before she shook her head and tiptoed back into the kitchen. Harry sat waiting for her, a mug of Peppermint tea sitting between his interlaced hands. He blew on the drink, watching with a touch of melancholy as the steam lifted from the cup, billowing up in a delicate spiral until it disappeared into nothingness.

"Sorry, I didn't mean for you to have to play nurse maid," Harry muttered, from where his head was hunched over his cuppa.

"He's my grandson, Harry, it's hardly a burden," Andromeda retorted, sitting down across from the young man, the wooden chair squeaking as her tired body sank into it. "I feel bad for  _you_. When you told me he was being difficult, I had no idea it was this bad. I assumed it was the normal trials and tribulations of raising a toddler. Honestly, Nymphadora makes our Teddy look like a saint. But this...this is beyond anything I've ever seen."

"Yeah," was Harry's oh so eloquent reply, before he lifted his mug up to his lips and promptly scalded his mouth. He choked, lips burning and tongue swollen, dropping the tea onto the table in one fell swoop. Trying to maintain his dignity, he managed to continue with, "And it's just getting worse. He's out of control...Maybe it's me?"

The Black sister arched a brow at him, reminding Harry suddenly and violently of Bellatrix. He clenched a fist underneath the table, trying to remind himself that the  _bitch_ , as Molly Weasley had so aptly called her, was dead and gone. Sitting here was a woman who he cared about, who he trusted, and he didn't have to try and protect himself from her.

"What do you mean? If you're having issues getting him to sleep or eat his vegetables, Molly or I would be happy to-"

Harry cut her off with a quick shake of his head. "That's not it...I don't get much sleep myself, these days. I have these...dreams, and flashbacks. I keep odd hours and I think I might talk in my sleep, and I just worry it's affecting him."

He decided he could risk trying another sip, but found that his tongue was so burnt that he couldn't even taste the Peppermint, and honestly, what was the point then? He shoved his mug away, giving up on the whole endeavor. 

"Of the battle." Andromeda murmured, not a question, though Harry gave a jerky nod anyway. "Have you spoken about these flashbacks to anyone?"

"Well, I've-" 

"Besides Ron and Hermione," Andromeda added, giving him a pointed look. Harry scowled, looking away.

"Why should I? So that some doctor can stare at me, judge me, treat me like some exhibit in a zoo? What are they going to tell me that I don't already know? I know I fucked up. I know it's my fault people are dead. I know that they're gone and-"

"Harry James Potter, you are  _not_ the only one who the war hurt," Andromeda exclaimed, over his tirade. "I lost my daughter, my husband, hell, even my sister. Who, despite all the hatred we held for each other, was  _still_ my  _sister._ We all fought in the war, and we all suffered. Do not presume to act so special that you are the only one above getting help for those things that plague our minds!" 

With these words she slammed a hand down on the oak table.  The noise brought the almost immediate wailing of the little boy who moments ago had been fast asleep. 

Harry huffed, pushing his chair back and walking (not stomping, _thank you very much_ ) down the hall, and opened the guest room. Teddy sat in the middle of his cot, wet and warm tears falling down those soft baby cheeks. 

"Oh Teddy," his guardian murmured, head hung with despair as he picked the toddler up, holding him tight against his chest. "We're in a world of trouble, aren't we, little boy?" The only response he was given was loud sniffs and little hands clenching the fabric of his jumper. Turning, Harry carried Teddy out to the kitchen, where a chagrined looking Andromeda still sat.

"Harry," she began, hesitation palpable in her voice. "Does Teddy often react like this when emotions are running high?"

Harry looked down at where a head full of brown hair was shoved against his armpit, considering the question. "Yeah, I guess so...I just figured it's cause he was unhappy I wasn't giving him enough attention."

Andromeda stood, her old and worn boots clicking on the tile as she went to the counter and broke a banana off from its companions, bringing it over to them. She pulled down the peel and waved it in front of Teddy, a bit like the way someone might try and entice a dog. Harry didn't take offense with such a primal way of treating his godson, mainly because the smell of banana was  all it took for Teddy to look up, the tears slowing, though they didn't cease altogether yet. Feeding him a bite of the banana, Teddy's attention was diverted to using chubby cheeks to munch happily. The older woman turned her gaze back up to Harry, her eyes holding  a deep sort of worry. 

"I'm afraid Teddy is an empathetic metamorphmagus." 

"A-what?"

"It's a rare side effect. Sometimes, when a witch or wizard is a metamorphmagus, they wind up taking in the emotions of the people they are with. They feel almost impossible empathy with what others are feeling."

"But, wouldn't that be a good thing?" Harry asked, brow furrowed, a hand absentmindedly stroking his pseudo son's silky hair. "Wouldn't that mean he could be really kind and thoughtful, because he understands just how a person is feeling?"

"In theory, yes. But it's not like the physical aspects that he can learn. As far as I know, there hasn't been anyone who has learned to control this 'ability' Most go insane."

Her words seemed to echo in Harry's brain, his stomach dropping and an icy cold prickle trailing down his spine as he looked back over at Teddy, who had once more begun to cry. 


	5. Bland

By the beginning of December, things had started becoming desperate. Teddy was inconsolable most of the time, Harry was exhausted, and Andromeda could only do so much. Teddy's emotions were now as changing as his hair, resting on a precarious precipice, off which they could fall at any moment.

This resulted in Harry ordering anyone who came over to keep their emotions in check. Say everything mildly. No cheering, no yelling. No, well, display of any true emotion. It was too risky. Of course, it wasn't much fun for Ron, or Hermione, or anyone else. After all, what fun was a match of wizard chess if you couldn't hoot and holler about the game? What good was it to want to sit and have a nice cuppa and talk about personal things, if you couldn't get upset or passionate? 

Not much fun, not much good. So little by little, Harry's friends stopped coming over. They made excuses, of course. Family, work, Quidditch. But Harry wasn't an idiot (despite some of the things he had done at Hogwarts saying otherwise) He knew the reason.

And it ate at him. He hated that he was alienating his friends. But what was the alternative? His godson, his little boy, his Teddy bear, was suffering. And he would do whatever it took to stop that. 

As if life wasn't hard enough, Harry's nightmares continued to worsen. All that blood, all that horror. So many times his name was uttered, whispered with accusation, with despair. Every morning he woke up covered in a cold sweat, the stench of fear and anxiety ripe on his cold, clammy skin. Godson and godfather were both losing their minds, and unless something changed and soon, they were both doomed.

On a cold, grey morning, Harry began the long, hard search for someone who could help Teddy. It started in the library, with Hermione, of course. 

"I have three books and five different files of wizards and witches who are the best candidates," Hermione told him in a low voice, her tone one that heralded back to all the essays they had researched at school. For once, her quiet words were for the sake of her sacred library, rather than for Teddy's. Andromeda was watching him tonight, bless her. Harry couldn't be trying to look after him and search for people, they'd never make any progress. So early that morning he'd flooed over to Andromeda's with Teddy, a plush dragon and toy broomstick in tow. 

"Thank you, 'Mione. Really, I mean it," he told his friend, trying to convey the desperate gratitude that he felt. The brunette smiled, lifting her head up. 

"Of course, Harry. I'm sorry I haven't been around much,...or Ron. We've just-"

Harry shook his head, cutting her off. "I know why. I know I haven't been a bundles of laugh to be with. I'm just glad you found all of this, it would have taken me ages."

Hermione chuckled, brushing her thick hair out of her face as she opened one of her books, handing Harry another one. "After all these years, and you're still hopeless."

"Totally," Harry agreed, relishing this light hearted banter. It felt like it had been so long, the month of November had dragged on, lonely and miserable. He opened the book set out in front of him, and was promptly engulfed in a cloud of dust that puffed out of the old tome. He coughed, swiping at the air, trying to clear it.

"Here's one," Hermione told him, flicking her wand, easily clearly the smoke away. "Ivana Sidor, a Russian witch. Known for her exceptional healing abilities, as well as- Um...her psychotic break downs and...Right, well, let's just...keep looking," she muttered, flushing pink and quickly turning the page.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wanted to add more to this chapter but decided it was just gonna sit in my drafts and I know we all want to get to Snape so here you go few people who keep up with this~


	6. Ian Kelly

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Harry for a moment believes Severus Snape is alive. But Ian Kelly is far from being Snape.

The session in the library had dragged on for two more tedious days, until Harry had a rather pathetic list of five or six names. Hardly the amount he’d been hoping for. But it was something, it was a start.

A start that came to a screeching halt, time and time again. Unanswered owls. Exorbinate fees. Demands for Harry to take photos with the healers, put in a good word for them, get them pardoned, have  _sex_ with them. One refused to help him because they blamed him for the death of some of their family. It was an utter and complete nightmare.

"There  _has_ to be someone else," Harry moaned to Hermione, burning the last letter he'd recieved. The contents of said letter had left him feeling so dirty he had the urge to go and scour his entire body head to toe.

Hermione frowned, looking over her notes. "There...might be." Harry perked up, leaning forward to glance over her shoulder. "But he's very hard to get a hold of. Only says where he lives, you can't owl or anything, it always gets returned. And he's picky. I've also never heard of him, yet he's only in Scotland..." The bushy haired witch furrowed her brow. Something seemed off, yet she could not seem to tell Harry what.

"Well, Scotland, that's easy," Harry declared, not one to be deflated by some odd locale and snobby customer choice. "Where in Scotland?"

 

Bigga, as it turned out, was a little speck of land in the Shetlands that had not been inhabited since the 1930s. It was a long, thin island, its biggest landmark being the remains of a well, and a burial ground. It was pouring, wind and rain lashing at his face, a lonesome howl  stretching across to the islands next door.

 

 So here he was. On Bigga. This tiny, isolated place, so far gone Harry could hardly believe anyone had managed to find it.Harry glanced around, uncertain if this was really right. Then again, for a healer as reclusive as this, he supposed the location made sense. This little cottage, sitting so haphazardly, on this forgotten island. The rain battered harder at Harry’s face, flooding his glasses and fogging them up. He grumbled under his breath, yanking his wand out and casting the spell on it that Hermione had used so many times before. He’d finally decided to learn it himself,because for Merlin’s sake he was a grown man. The rain slipped off his glasses, allowing him to once more see the door in front of him.

“Well, here goes nothing,” Harry muttered under his breath, raising a hand and knocking three times on the damp wood. He waited a moment, and then he heard a shuffling behind the door. Harry tried to straighten his back some, wanting to look respectable and adult. A clicking and clanking of the lock carried through the door, and then it was pulled open.

Harry nearly reeled backwards. Standing before him was Severus Sn- But no. No, it wasn’t. Severus Snape was dead, and this man certainly wasn’t him. But upon first sight, it had almost seemed like it. The man standing before him was on the slender side, taller than Harry.  
His hair was cropped and short, grey that bled into the black. His eyes might have been black, they might have been brown, Harry couldn't really say. His nose looked like it had been broken several times. There was nothing remarkable about him, except for the fact he vaguely resembled Snape. But then the light shifted, and the similarities vanished.

Harry could now see a dozen little things that made him stand out from his former professor. Ian Kelly was not so pale. His hands were not stained, rather only rough from what Harry presumed to be working with tools or perhaps in a garden. He wore no flowing black robes, but rather tweed trousers and a wool jumper. Looking upon him further, Harry felt ashamed and embarrassed to have ever thought he looked like Snape. He also realized he’d been standing there for nearly a minute, gaping at poor Mr. Kelly, instead of bothering to introduce himself.

“Can’I help you?” Kelly’s voice was rough and low, but Harry could not tell if it was really Scottish.

“God, yes, sorry,” Harry stammered out, shaking his head. “I’m-” Well, there was no way around this, was there? In a moment, the healer would see his scar, his glasses, he might as well jump the gun. “Harry. Harry Potter.”

He was met with stone silence, Ian Kelly staring at him with a hard expression. He looked Harry up and down, before meeting Harry’s gaze once more, looking thoroughly put out.

“I don't think I can help you,” he rasped, his accent slipping through in rough tones. “No, Mr. Potter, I’m going to ask you to leave.”

Harry blinked a couple of times; he had to admit to having become so accustomed to people falling all over themselves at the sight of the boy who lived, chosen one, savior of the Wizarding world, that having someone not do so was honestly quite bizarre.

“Sorry? I-you won’t-why?” Harry stumbled over his words, feeling instantly annoyed with himself. He’d always insisted the world never owed him anything, that no one needed to bow to his whims. Yet here he was acting like Ian Kelly was somehow slighting him.

“It’s nothing personal,” Kelly told him swiftly, waving a dismissive hand. “But as you may have realized, when you managed to look me up, that I am not a public man. I do not have any desire to suddenly become popular because word gets out that Harry Potter, defeater of the Dark Lord, comes to me for aid.”

Harry supposed he couldn’t blame the healer for this fear. Publicity and chaos seemed to follow him wherever he went. Had it been just for himself, he would have admitted defeat, turned tail, and left poor Ian Kelly alone.

But this wasn’t for himself. This was for his godson. This was for Teddy. This was for a little boy who had to be kept in a dark, quiet room, away from others. For his red haired, banana loving, Teddy Bear who was now being kept awake by Harry’s own nightmares, feeling the same horror and dread Harry felt. He could not turn away. Not when the sanity and happiness of Remus and Tonks’ son rested squarely on Harry’s still young shoulders.

Kelly went to close the door, to shut Harry out of his life for good, when the younger man shot his hand out, effectively stopping the door from being shut.

“Wait! Please, just-” Harry was panting, desperation crawling into his voice, unable to stop himself. “Mr. Kelly, I know why you don’t want me here, I mean, I get it. But I’m not here for me. I’m here for my godson, and look I can pay you whatever you want, and-”

“Mr. Potter, I have no interest in your money,” Kelly retorted, trying to wrench the door from Harry’s hands. “I can’t be of any help to you, you bring trouble with you. Good day.”

And with that he managed to pull the door free of Harry’s admittedly weak grip, and yanked it shut, right in Harry’s face. The sound of the heavy locked being redone could be heard, then...nothing. Harry’s shoulders fell, at his utter and total failure. What could he do? What could he say? This was his last resort. He stepped backwards away from the door, shaking his head. He stared up at the cottage for a moment, his mind racing. Money wouldn’t do it. Alright then. How about proof? How about evidence that his little boy really was in danger of falling into darkness?  
Yes, Harry would bring Kelly that proof, bring his tear stained, overwhelmed Teddy to this Gods forsaken island. And he would change the healer’s mind.

 

 


	7. Help

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Teddy meets Ian Kelly, and Harry decides he's well and truly going mad.

“Alright, Teddy, we’re going somewhere special today,” Harry told the two year old, helping him into his bright yellow rain jacket. 

“Go?” Teddy repeated, eyes hopeful, but not smiling. Certainly, he must have been sensing Harry’s nerves, feeling the worry that bled through Harry’s cheerful demeanor. 

“Yes!” Harry tried to sound overly enthusiastic. It was better than worry. Too much happiness and excitement could just as easily make Teddy overwhelmed, bouncing off the walls,reckless, uncontrollable. But with how tense everything had been, Harry thought it better for Teddy to at least soak up a little too much happiness. “We’re going somewhere far away, for the day. Won’t that be exciting?” 

At last he seemed to have fooled the boy-the boy’s magic- whichever-into believing the happiness, because Teddy nodded and began to smile, his eyes slowly morphing into a dazzling blue, the color of a hot summer sky. “Ya! We go, Hawwy. We go?” He hopped up and down, his knees wobbling together, his hair a shade of sugar spun cotton candy. 

Harry laughed, a full, unbridled laugh, Merlin, for once. “Soon as we get your wellies on, we can go. Can you be a big boy and help me out?” 

Teddy nodding intently, lifting up his leg and balancing like a flamingo. Harry grabbed one of the blue wellies and tugged it onto his godson’s foot, which was already beginning to wobble. 

“Right, next one!” With a big of tugging and hopping this time, Harry and Teddy managed to get the other boot on. “Alright then. Now, I’m going to pick you up, you hold on tightly. Close your eyes and next thing you know, we’ll be somewhere else!”

The prospect of this seemed to thrill Teddy, who clambered into Harry’s arms and clung tightly to him, like a koala clinging to its mum. Harry shifted him in his arms a bit, making certain he was really secure, before lifting his wand. Then with a loud crack they were Apparating, leaving their flat and the dry London cityscape behind. 

Harry hated apparating. Since the first time he’d done it, holding onto Dumbledore’s arm, several years ago, he’d despised it. No matter how many times he did it, it never felt any better. But it was the easiest, most efficient way to travel, and the only option to get to Bigga, to get to Ian Kelly. 

His stomach flipped and flopped and then they’d arrived. It was not pouring today, like it had been the previous week. It was however foggy, the thick sort that lay low on the ground and seeped into everything. The grey and wet danced around, obscuring everything from view; the islands, the water, even the little cottage. 

Harry gingerly set Teddy on the ground, his wee boots sinking into the mud with a squelching sound. “Here we are then,” he announced, as much to Teddy as to himself. Now that he was standing here, he wasn’t so certain about his plan. Bring his godson to a remote location without telling anyone. Have his godson meet a reclusive, total stranger. Try and show his godson’s “illness” to said stranger. Hope for a good outcome. 

Teddy had begun to shiver as Harry had lingered on his thoughts, and this is what ultimately made Harry snap out of them. “I’m sorry, Teddy,” he said, setting his jaw in a firm line. “Take my hand, okay? We’re going to meet someone new.” 

“Go?”

Harry nodded and felt a little pudgy hand wrap around as much of Harry’s bigger one as it could. Satisfied that Teddy had a good grip on him, the pair began to trudge through the mud and fog, in the direction of where Harry was fairly certain the cottage had been. It was hard going, and Teddy nearly toppled over a couple different times. At last they made it, finding the little path of stones that lead up to the door.

Harry let go of Teddy’s hand, so that he could reach forward and knock, three times, just as before. It took a bit longer this go around, but soon enough the creaking of floorboards could be heard, as the owner moved to answer the door. Then the lock, before the door was pulled open. 

“No,” was the almost immediate greeting Harry received. “Absolutely not, I told you last time-”

“I brought my godson with me,” Harry interjected, gently pulling Teddy forward. The toddler stared up at Ian Kelly with wide, silver eyes, his hair curling up and turning black. 

“He’s a metamorphmagus,” Kelly observed, momentarily forgetting his ire as he looked down at the little boy. There was a trace of curiosity and awe in his voice, which of course Teddy mimicked, his own eyes taking on a kind of dazzle, and he even let out a whispered, “Ohhh,” feeling that inexplicable empathy. This did not go unnoticed by Kelly, who’s eyes narrowed ever so minutely. In the same way- For fuck’s sake, Potter, no. He wasn’t here to try to misidentify someone who could help him.

“A fascinating ability, but not one that needs healing, Mr. Potter. He will learn how to control his powers. Now,it was very nice to meet you, wee one, but I have a potion brewing.”

“If you would just hear me out, it’s not just his abilities, I mean, not just the physical ones-”

Ian Kelly drew himself up to his full height, folding his arms across his chest. “I have been polite as I can be, but you try my patience. Death follows you. I understand the nature of what you were, who you are. But death and chaos and reporters are all things I’d rather avoid. Do not think because of your name you can bring shadows to whoever you want!”

Deep green eyes looked helplessly into dark ones, anger and sadness and confusing unspoken words going between the two, their gazes locked and unwavering. The more that was said, the worse Harry began to feel. Because the healer was right. Because Harry was responsible, was accountable, he was a bad omen, a person to be avoided-

“Ah! Nononono. Bad!” Teddy’s ear piercing shriek made both grown men jump, the staring contest ended. Harry fell to his knees, not caring about the muddy ground or that his trousers were being soaked. 

“Shh, Teddy, Teddy. No, it’s okay. Look, I’m alright. We’re alright, Teddy Bear.” He wrapped his arms around his godson, rocking him back and forth, trying to calm himself as well, knowing that was half the battle. As Teddy buried his face into the soft fabric of Harry’s pullover, Harry turned his head to look up at Ian Kelly, and if there was a bit of accusation in his eyes,well, he didn’t try to change it.

“You see? You think this is normal? This is not just being a metamorphmagus. He’s an empath, as you can see, a very susceptible one. Do you see why I need your help? If someone else could help me, I’d be with them. I wouldn’t be trying to harass you just because of my name! Please, help my little boy.” 

Kelly looked down at him for a moment, looking guilty and uncertain. Then in a hoarse rasp he told Harry, “I think you two had better come inside.”

He stepped backwards, gesturing for the pair to enter the little home. Harry didn’t hesitate, didn’t try and second guess it. He stood up, lifting Teddy into his arms, and carried him across the threshold. It was much warmer inside, almost to the point where Harry wanted to strip out of his jacket. This was thanks to a fire that sat crackling in the stone fireplace in the middle of the little sitting room. An armchair sat next to it, sedate in pattern and color, a simple brown. In the next room over, Harry could hear a potion softly simmering. Well, at least Kelly hadn’t been lying about that. 

The older man shut the door behind them all, and stood staring at Harry and Teddy. Unfazed by this (Harry was completely numb to being looked at), Harry settled the boy on the big chair, kissing his forehead. Now that Kelly had agreed to let them in, Harry had calmed down some, and so Teddy was able too as well. “Do you have something he could drink? It helps him,” Harry spoke to Kelly, now deciding to indeed take off his jacket, the heat soaking into him. 

“Of course, I have milk?”

Harry nodded gratefully and Kelly left the room, his gait long and quick. 

“Hawwy...who dat?” Harry realized he’d never told Teddy whose home they were in. Trying to explain the why would have been pointless, but the toddler should have some story to tell about where Harry had dragged him to. 

“He’s a new friend. He’s going to help you feel better.”

“Bedder?”

“Mhmm. So you can go out and play more, and Auntie Hermione and Uncle Ron can visit and your Nana can take you on adventures.”

This seemed to please Teddy, who got a very small and crooked smile on his face, and pushed his thumb into his mouth. Harry wasn’t bothered by this little habit, Teddy rarely did it, and his teeth were doing fine so far. 

Kelly had returned, carrying a cup that was about half full of thick, creamy milk. Harry imagined he must get it from a sheep farm on a nearby island. 

“Thank you, Mr. Kelly.” 

“Ian.”

“Sorry?”

“You can call me Ian.”

“Oh, right. Harry’s fine by me, as well.” He carefully handed the cup to Teddy, who was remarkably steady with such a big cup for someone so little. He looked back up at Ian; the man looked tired today, far more so than the first time they’d met. Dark circles rimmed his eyes, his skin was paler. Harry wondered what had changed, but he wasn’t here to pry into this healer’s life, even if he did find himself once again thinking of Snape.

It was entirely irrational. With the sweater, he easily could have been reminded of Lupin. With the eyes, Sirius. With the gruff voice, Moody. He was really, truly losing his mind. Oh well, maybe Lockhart would enjoy the company. 

“I’ve heard of empathic metamorphs before. But I have never encountered it myself. I am sorry I did not listen to you before.”

“Are you?” Harry felt slightly surprised by this.

A glint appeared in Ian’s eyes and he shrugged, lip curving ever so slightly. “I admit I am mostly curious. But one so young shouldn’t have to suffer so. So kindly professional intrigue. You can consider it thusly.”

Harry almost snorted at this answer. At least he was honest. Harry had had enough lies and half truths to last him a lifetime. Brutal honesty came as a good change of pace. 

“Can you help him? Us?”

“I don’t know,” Ian admitted. “But challenges are the only part of life worth pursuing...and you did mention a considerable payment.”

“Of course,” Harry said, not about to go back on that. Money was like water to him, for the happiness and sanity of Teddy. 

Speaking of, said boy had finished his milk, and made a whining sound in the back of his throat for Harry to take the cup back. With a fond shake of his head, Harry did so, setting it down on a table.

 

“I assume one of the boy’s parents is a metamorphmagus?” Ian asked him, and Harry nodded in confirmation. “It would be much more helpful if they were here as well, I could speak to them and find out any history…” He trailed off, seeing the look on Harry’s face. “I see.”

“During the Battle of Hogwarts,” Harry murmured, not wanting Teddy to hear. Not right now, not so little. It wouldn’t mean anything to him, and yet Harry knew it wasn’t just words that held power. 

“Like so many others. Very well. I will need time to get things together. There is of course no standard path of healing for this, you understand. But there’s things I can start with. In the meantime, I imagine you can set up my payment. “

And that was how they left things, with Teddy sleepy and full of milk, information about Ian’s vault in Edinburgh, and an arrangement to meet next week, to start treatments.


End file.
